BBC Sherlock One Shots
by ViSovari
Summary: My collection of one-shots for BBCSherlock. Many of them will be John/Sherlock so be warned, there be gay ahead. Some will be smut, others will be fluff, and there will undoubtedly be some crack!fics. M, just in case.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock ignored the words spilling out of John and instead chose to listen to the sounds that came in between them. Every gasp and moan, every hitch of breath and quaver, all of it parsed out in-between meaningless words like "no" and "stop" and "please."

"Oh, god, no." The detective shuddered at that, those breathy words involuntarily exhaled as his teeth sunk into the tender skin of John's neck. So good. Sun and sweat and skin and the smell of John permeating everything. His nostrils flared as he inhaled, the scent only stiffening his cock.

"Sherlock, no." John managed to push the man's head away, hands grasping either side of his face and searching the eyes there. "Sherlock, you need to stop this. We are in a park. There are people. Not to mention, we don't do things like this."

Sherlock huffed, irritated and more than a little distracted at the moment. But, this was John after all, and if a short explanation would shut him up and make him a little more agreeable, he would suffer the tedium.

"How long have you been seeing Lestrade?" Sherlock casually re-arranged his clothing as he asked the seemingly meaningless question. John looked shock but quickly it turned into an expression that Sherlock had only ever seen when John thought he wasn't looking. It was need.

"Right, then." Sherlock thrust John back against the gardening shed they'd found secluded in the park. His hands clutched at John's shirt, pulling and twisting the fabric as he buried his face in the crook of John's neck, tongue and teeth working a frantic pace. "Move in with me, John."

John almost laughed but his breathing was too ragged. "I could have sworn I already had." He groaned as Sherlock's hands slid up the back of his jumper, long fingers dragging across his spine. His body instinctively arched against Sherlock's and he felt the detective's hands clench at the friction.

"John, my room, move into my room. Never leave." Despite his hands working aggressively across John's back and hips, his words had a pleading quality that melted what little resolve John had managed to preserve. Sherlock's lips stopped their frantic worrying at John's neck and turned to his mouth.

At the same time he pressed the full length of his body into the man, his knee wriggling between John's legs and creating an obscene amount of heat and friction.

"And when you get bored?" As much as his body screamed, he knew he couldn't resist asking. His teeth caught Sherlock's lower lip, worrying the sensitive skin and drawing a deep groan from the man. Inside, John cursed himself for needing an answer to that question.

Sherlock pulled himself away long enough to lock eyes with John. "Never leave me, John. I will do everything I can to make you happy but I will undoubtedly hurt you. I will never stop hurting you. Never. Now shut up and kiss me."

And he did. He knew Sherlock enough to know that a promise of a lifetime of pain was still a promise of a lifetime together.


	2. My Ward

Pairings: Johnlock

Summary: Sherlock is a fledgling vampire as well as detective. Mycroft employs John Watson, a newly licensed Watcher, to both watch over and serve his difficult younger brother as he struggles with his new found powers as well as his unexpected interest in the companion he'd love to hate.

Rating: T

Sherlock advanced on John, circling him until he had him backed against the wall of the bedroom turned crime scene. His mind was clouded, the scent of blood strong, so strong, here. The two victims had been cut and bled dry, the accumulated stench of blood and decay was heady and Sherlock's pupils had dilated nearly upon entering the room. Lestrade had warned them that it would be graphic on the phone, had advised them to use any extra precautions they could take.

John watched Sherlock's approach with both fear and resignation, he'd been prepared for this possibility but that didn't make him like it. Sherlock drew up against him, his pupils swollen inhumanly large and his head weaved ever so slightly, the hypnotic movement advertised as a tell of a vampire in feeding heat. John resisted the allure of those black eyes and focused on holding still but remaining pliable.

As dark eyes turned to John's neck and the arteries that pulsed just under the surface, Sherlock's fangs instinctively extended from their sheaths. It was that scant extra half inch that made them so terrifying but John didn't let it show, face rigidly neutral. Lips touched John's neck lightly and Sherlock whimpered slightly as he inhaled the heady scent of fresh blood under ripe skin.

John would never confess to Sherlock just how affectionate he would often become while feeding. It was all too obvious that the man was vastly unaware of it and in John's opinion, was no doubt emotionally unprepared for the possible repercussions. Still, he sucked affectionately at the taut skin of John's neck, drawing specks of of blood to the surface in a small hickey where he would pierce the skin.

As he lowered his mouth to strike, the door to the room opened. Lestrade took one look at what was happening and froze for a fraction of a second before hastily trying to leave. A fraction of a second was a fraction too long and before anyone could speak Sherlock was across the room. The house shook as the blur that was the detective grabbed Lestrade by the throat and lifted him bodily, slamming him against the wall.

John ran across the room in horror, sickened by the frantic slamming of Gregory's shoes against the wall as his windpipe began to close. Pulling his utility knife from his pocket as he ran, John cut a 3 inch gash across his palm. He tackled Sherlock from behind, placing his bleeding hand over the growling man's mouth.

Lestrade fell to the floor with a thud but immediately began crawling, gasping and heaving, out of the doorway while he remained unnoticed. Sherlock, latching onto the wound against his mouth began to slowly sink to the floor as he suckled. Moving with him, John settled with his back against the wall, Sherlock between his legs with his head lolling on John's shoulder, greedily sucking at John's hand.

John tracked his blood loss as he'd been trained to do. This was the job Mycroft had hired him for. It had been time to turn his little brother and one of the best ways to handle the fearsome unpredictability of a fledgling vampire was to pair them with a Watcher. Or "cattle" as those who viewed the vampire community negatively called them.

Sherlock hummed happily in his lap, still steadily drawing on the cut. It was a slower form of feeding, not as much blood flow in so shallow a wound, but Lestrade would no doubt make sure they'd be left alone until they came out of their own will. John stroked his free hand through his ward's hair, enjoying the tangle of heavy brown curls. For someone who was such an imposing, self-possessed man, Sherlock really was a very needy vampire.

John had been hand picked to be Sherlock's Watcher for exactly that reason. Watcher's were taught that the feeding state put most vampires in a more primal mindset. This was only ever a control issue for the younger ones who were easier to overwhelm in their raw form. Mycroft had predicted that his brother would require a lot of careful handling when turned and had been proven right beyond his expectations.

Sherlock had refused to feed from anyone but would not name any criteria for whom he would deign to take sustenance from. Mycroft had been forced to feed Sherlock from donor bags for 2 months while they interviewed a vast parade of Watchers that Sherlock often refused to give any reason for turning down. Until of course, he'd stumbled into John.

An internal alarm told him it was time to start extricating himself from his ward. Removing his hand from the dark curls, he began to stroke Sherlock's throat in a counter rhythm to the young man's swallowing. At first, the vampire simply huffed but when the distraction persisted his dark eyes finally fluttered open to meet John's, gaze fuzzy with lingering hunger.

John smiled and tapped him sharply on the nose twice. Sherlock blinked, startled, but the light shock had the effect it always did, the vampire slowly blinked until it was Sherlock looking at him. He removed John's palm from his swollen lips, giving the gash one last rough lick before handing John his arm back as he would hand him an empty dish. John just smiled and smacked him gently on the back of the head. Sherlock didn't bother hiding his smile and neither did John, happy as he was to see his ward beginning to adjust to the quirks of his new life.

Sherlock stood and held a hand to John, helping him to his feet and then, with uncharacteristic thoughtfulness, took John's bloody hand in his own, turning it palm up to observe the cut. He studied the swollen, reddened skin, tasting the blood on his tongue and savoring the feeling of contentment that rolled in his chest. He had fed three times today and closely due to the stress of the case's environment. His cheeks were flushed a rare shade of pink and darkened even more so as he darted his lips to John's hand.

He lay a gently kiss against the palm, murmuring a low "thank you" before straightening his jacket and leaving the room more quickly than John was willing to bet he'd wanted to.

The Watcher's smile lasted well out of the crime scene and even back to the flat. Sherlock's did as well, even if he refused to let John see it.


	3. Scarplay

Rated: M

WARNING: There is some pretty graphic sexual play with scars as the title hints at. Just huge warnings on this, sexually.

Sherlock/John

John brushed his teeth with short brisk strokes, his routine efficient and rigid as it had been molded during his service in the military. He stared directly into his own eyes in the mirror, fearing to move them elsewhere and break the fragile moment lacing the room. Standing next to him was none other than Sherlock Holmes, the man John had killed for having known him not 24 hours and also, his flatmate. Adjusting to Sherlock's multitude of habits, quirks and oddities was proving to be a hobby of John Watson's, intrigued as he was by the odd man.

Tonight, Sherlock had wandered into the restroom, mumbling to himself and obviously quite lost in his own thoughts as barely seemed to register John's presence. He had rummaged through a cabinet then turned with a grunt of disappointment, clearly not having found what he was looking for. As his eyes passed over John, something peculiar had happened. Sherlock quite literally froze mid step and then simply stared at the ugly knot of scar tissue on John's chest, precariously near to his heart.

John was watching the man's reflection in the mirror but he continued his routine, re-capping the toothpaste and beginning to brush his teeth. He understood almost immediately that this was Sherlock's first time seeing him without a shirt and therefore his parting gift from the war. Sherlock's eyes met his in the mirror and John reflexively jerked his gaze back to his own.

They stood like this as John finished his routine and it was just as he capped the toothpaste and set it back in it's drawer that Sherlock finally moved. In two short steps, the gap between them was closed and Sherlock ran tentative fingers across John's shoulder. He somehow managed to look up at John while looking down and the question was obvious: may I?

John smiled encouragingly but felt a warning twinge in his chest but if Sherlock knew he must have ignored it for his fingers were immediately sliding against the slick skin of John's scars. They would fade more but for now they were red and hot, a gnarled mass on his left shoulder that John still hadn't quite become accustomed to seeing in the mirror.

His fingers were slow and precise as they traced individual arcs and bumps but the touches quickly became firm and Sherlock inched ever so slightly closer to John. John who was all too aware that being backed against a counter by Sherlock was a very bad thing for a man such as himself. A man who may be tempted in a situation such as this, both of them in only pajama bottoms as it were.

John raised a hand, aiming to push the taller man firmly away from him but jumped when he found his wrist encircled and then-.

And then, oh god. And then his index and middle finger were enveloped in something so hot, so wet, so slick and John would have run if his damned legs would have just moved. Sherlock ran his tongue along the underside of John's fingers, his left hand encircling John's wrist as his right lay palm down over the shorter man's scars. He hummed around the wet digits in his mouth, eyes closed to slits as he drifted ever closer to John.

The vibration around his fingers was mind numbing and every one of John's repressed feelings for his flat mate were forced to the forefront at once, to his frustration. Sherlock released his fingers from his mouth and John inhaled, taking the moment of freedom to collect his thoughts even as hands fell to his waist. They gripped and pushed, prodding insistently until he found himself sitting on the bathroom counter. John was still in the process of collecting his thoughts, a process he estimated was at 20% completion, and was therefore vastly unprepared for the detective's next move.

The back of his head hit the mirror with a startling crack but the sharp pain was nothing compared to the throbbing ache that was Sherlock's mouth sucking at his scars. His lips would catch at the puckered flesh, his tongue laving the hot skin and every inch of John was taut and shuddering. Bony hips nudged his thighs gently apart and the gratifying weight of Sherlock's erection ground against his own. Later, he would reflect that even with the benefit of hindsight, he still would have given into Sherlock, he'd only wanted it longer than he'd admit to anyone but the man himself.

One of Sherlock's hands rose to cradle the back of John's head, a silent apology for the bump, the other sank savagely into John's hip, a stark contrast to it's gentler twin. John's throat was thick with heat and the sounds Sherlock forced from him emerged slowly, nearly tortuously, as he struggled to breathe. His scar was livid, Sherlock's breaths, panted in between open mouthed exploration were painfully hot on his scar. Then he seared his way down John's chest, biting and sucking a trail of red marks that left John dizzy and swearing.

Fisting his left hand in dark curls, John wrenched Sherlock's lips to his own, biting down ferociously and drawing blood. His right hand clenched Sherlock's waist as he began thrusting mindlessly. Again and again he ground them together, Sherlock matching him stroke for stroke as he began to bite desperately at John's neck. Their rhythm increased until it became unbearable and just as John felt he would snap from the tension, Sherlock pulled a hand from his waist and slid two of his fingers into John's mouth.

His groan was cut short by a pained moan at the sudden loss of friction against his cock but sensing his distress Sherlock merely shoved his fingers deeper into John's mouth and hissed at him, "Suck." The sounds John made after that, as he began to work his tongue pleadingly, were encouraging enough that Sherlock was forced to pause for a moment, grabbing the counter with his free hand as he stifled a moan. John would always remember it as the one time that seeing a man's knees buckle nearly forced him to orgasm instantaneously.

As it was, he refrained and Sherlock, regaining his momentum, soon had both his and John's pants low enough that their erections were freed. Without hesitation Sherlock took his hand, fingers glistening with saliva, and slicked them both as best he could before wrapping his long fingers around both of them and pumping. Their groaning soon became frantic cries and just as John felt orgasm reach him, Sherlock darted down and latched his lips onto his scar, sucking hard and running his tongue along it's length.

The bruises his hands left on Sherlock's hips stayed for days and the detective swore forever after that it wouldn't have been half the shag without them. They both came hard, Sherlock following moments after John, provoked over the edge by the cry of his name that accompanied the doctor's release. Shuddering and numbed from the exertion, Sherlock slumped forward against John and rested his head on his shoulder, breaths puffing heavily on his neck.

Sherlock would always remember those moments of post coital bliss as some of the most peaceful in his entire life. A growing ache in John's back began to build and just as he was inhaling to speak, Sherlock began to stand. John straightened and slid off the counter as Sherlock took a neat step back and arched a wry brow at their reflections. When he turned to look John couldn't help his burst of laughter.

"Utterly scandalous, grown men in this state." Sherlock's deadpan baritone couldn't disguise his amusement and John didn't have to force the smile he felt when looking at his flatmate's reflection.


	4. MorMor Mature

Jim/Seb PwP Mature

I haven't posted because I've been trying to practice. So that's pretty much what my one shots are, practice. Please do no take then seriously.

Very few people in the world had the honor of saying they could slip unseen past Sebastian Moran and, much to his constant dismay, Jim Moriarty was not one of those talented individuals. Even in sleep, the ex soldier's mind was too attuned to a life of constant violence to allow anything to pass unnoticed.

So it came as no surprise that Jim had tiptoed no more than a foot into the bedroom before Moran gave a gravelly grunt of acknowledgment from where he lay sprawled on the bed. Jim heaved an aggrieved sigh at being caught out but didn't alter is course in any way, Sebastian could be conscious all he wanted, Jim would still have his fun. From where he lay naked on his stomach, tangled in Jim's ridiculous blue silk sheets, Seb grunted once more, warning Jim that shenanigans would not be appreciated at this hour.

Jim only ripped the sheets away and gave the man's arse a sharp smack that was quickly drowned out by Sebastian's angry bark of protest. Giving no sign of having heard, Jim divested himself of his jacket before clambering onto the bed and straddling Moran's thighs. The skin prickled and trembled where Jim's fingers slowly trailed, first drifting down well muscled back before affectionately cupping his arse. Cocking his head he admired the picture Sebastian made beneath him, his servant and companion, his executioner and lover. A man of enviable mental and physical endurance reduced to a trembling heap beneath his steady hand.

Having learned in the past to let Jim alone during his silences, Moran forced himself to lay still, arms curled beneath his pillow to hide the embarrassing way his fingers clutched convulsively at the bedsheets. Though the rest of him was still, Jim's hands kneaded the firm flesh beneath his fingers, thumbs slowly circling closer and closer to the juncture of Sebastian's thighs. Cock throbbing painfully, Seb knew he was unraveling too quickly and only managed to remain still by reciting a constant litany of ways in which he WOULD kill Jim come morning. The tortuous massage seemed never ending and had he known his companion less truly, he'd have suspected that the touches were subconscious, unintentional.

As if having heard the thought, Jim dropped all pretense of gentleness and quickly spread him open, grinding his erection against the man's bared entrance. Though he managed to bite back the groan that filled his throat, his hips were less cooperative and Sebastian couldn't help grinding grinding his arse against Jim's cock once

twice

The third time his ass thrust backwards it met only air and the sudden lack of heat and friction drew a pained whimper that Sebastian was unable to contain. Jim hissed, his pet's pathetic cry causing his cock to strain painfully against his now much too tight trousers. Quickly divesting himself of the remainder of his clothing, Jim leveled an approving eye on his pet's once more still form. He caressed muscled calves, running his hands lightly upwards before lightly gripping the man's hips, his gentleness an acknowledgment of Moran's progress in submission.

When first they'd fucked, it had been near indistinguishable from brawling. Always it had come in the chaotic aftermath of a job, their hands smelling of discharged guns and the heady satisfaction of another battle survived flooding them with endorphins. Moran was always horny after a job and Jim simply hadn't been one to let that go to waste. Jim refocused on the submissive mercenary he had pinned beneath him. Oh yes, his pet truly had learned. Still…

He moved too quickly for Moran to do more than choke on his name. Planting one hand firmly on the base of Seb's spine, Jim snatched a handful of blonde hair and pulled viciously, bowing the man until he could sink his teeth into the base of his neck. There Sebastian hung, a puppet supported by the skin of his neck and the roots of his hair and the sheer ownership of it had Jim growling through a mouthful of broken skin and blood.


End file.
